Catching Fire, a Mentor's Perspective
by Draco Ranger
Summary: Katniss is a co-main character in Catching Fire. Haymitch should be hero. He actually knows what's going on, he saves everybody, and he has a far more interesting story. His perspective of the 75th Hunger Games. T for violence and language
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Reader,**

** Welcome to my first attempt at a Fanfic. This will follow the main strokes of Catching Fire, but may alter the end or minor details. Enjoy.**

**Thank you for reading,**

**Draco Ranger**

Chapter 1- Hangover and Effie

The atmosphere of the room is subdued, dark, and depressed, at odds with the room itself, which is well lit, airy, and designed to allow people to work under stressful circumstances for an extended period of time. A necessity, considering the people who work there. Scattered around the room are small gatherings of three or so people, twelve groups in all. Some are arguing others are silent; one is looking anxiously around, as if one of their number is missing. In the center of the room is a group of technicians, the only people talking animatedly and acting excited in the area. It is as if they are looking forward to Christmas...

Despite the differences between the groups, they all have one uniting feature, total and absolute attention to a massive hologram display in the center of the room. Using multiple projectors, a 3-D image is formed by projected light in the air. The projectors are currently picking up light from an airship, and are showing an aerial view of what appears to be a small island with a giant gold triangle on it surrounded by a lagoon. On the shores of lagoon, 24 small pedestals stand, each with a hole in the middle.

"Alter view to Cap-rotating camera," a male from one of the arguing groups shouts out.

"Rodger 7!" responds one of the technicians, rapidly and efficiently altering the view of the holo-screen to that of the top of the gold triangle, resolving itself to be instead a cornucopia, with a pile of equipment 20 feet tall pouring out.

Immediately many of the groups begin to whisper amongst themselves. Snatches of conversation can be made out above the murmur.

"...we're facing the back; I hope Johanna will go to higher ground..."

"...good, a water map, we have the advantage..."

"...is Cinna? He should have been here hours ago!"

Damn, I wish I had a whisky.

"Shut up, Effie. It's hard enough being sober without listening to you." I shot back.

God, sometimes it's worth pissing her off just for the expression on her face.

"Well, I never! All I am doing is expressing concern over where a valued colleague is! You should be worried sick where such a useful and nece-" She tittered in her high pitched voice before being cut off by mine.

Bulging eyes, flapping wig, absolute murder in her eyes, or the Capitol equivalent at least, so probably a strong desire to insult my fashion sense. Yep, once again, worth it.

"We don't need him, and you are distracting me. Do you want Katniss to die because I couldn't see what I need to get her?" I interrupted. An empty threat, as it was, the moments before the start of the Games were some of the most boring of my career. You can't even make an impact until the second day, and by that time there is a good chance that your tribute will be dead, going after booby-trapped equipment you told her to ignore, or twisting their ankle and being trapped in the middle of an open field, or trying to jump over the mines and blowing themselves up.

Effie started to tear up, a process that was, thankfully, silent.

A change in the hologram caught my attention; apparently one of the other mentors requested a view of the supplies. It was like a gung-ho Peacekeeper's wet dream. Knives, throwing stars, swords, garrotes, machetes, pole arms, bows, katanas, and morning stars abounded the pile. There was even a throwing disc, which was used in a martial art that was founded several thousand miles away and died out over a thousand years ago. After 25 years of sending kids to their deaths, you learn more about weapons than you thought existed.

But the unusual part was that there weren't any survival supplies, it was only weaponry. Apparently the Gamemaker wants this over quickly... O.K. first thing to do is get Katniss a tap for the trees. That should give her an edge and be cheap enough to send on the first or second day... Are there any sponsors from last time who would be willing to fork over money this quickly? Ehh, probably.

Overhead a voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games begin!

Turning back to the hologram, each of the pedestals now has a person standing on top of it. The people present are almost a cross section of the entire population. Ages? 17-80. Skin colors? White to black with a lot of tan. Gender? Half male and half female or, depending on some of the rumors, 11/24 male, half female, and 1/24 other. I don't believe that's true, the "guy" probably would have died of blood loss when it happened or committed suicide long since; still it does make you think... The only uniting factor was all of whom are wearing an unusual tracksuit type outfit. It contains what appears to be a life-preserver, is shiny blue, and is obviously not designed for sneaking around in. Just another way they are trying to hasten the games. A glint of gold catches my eye and also, unfortunately, catches Effie's, who starts to wave and cheer for Katniss.

"Go Katniss!" She squeals, "I know you can win!"

I grimace, thinking of the sound of fingernails on blackboards... Ahh, bliss.

Furiously ignoring Effie, I turn to a projection screen and set it to look from Katniss's point of view. There are only 15 seconds left on the countdown before an absolute bloodbath begins. Ow... I wish I hadn't drunk so much. The noise in here is just too loud.

30 seconds left...

I check on Katniss's GPS tracker and access the rudimentary medical data, ensuring that I can get readings on her heart rate and a few other basic pieces of data. Anything to kill the next 25 seconds.

10 seconds...

I cross over to Effie, who is counting down under her breath.

5 seconds...

The contestants are tensed up and ready to sprint.

3 seconds...

Cheering starts among the Capitol people.

2 seconds...

Time is slowing down... The contestants are in their starting positions.

1 second...

Some tributes push off the pedestal, desperate for that extra second to gain an advantage.

GONG!

**Thank you for reading, thank you Audrey for reviewing, and if there is any response I will try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible.**


	2. Screeching and Science

**Hello Again,**

**Here's Chapter 2, hopefully it will have more action and will be more entertaining. It will also be more divergent with the novel, as there is less information in it that Haymitch will care about.**

**Thank you again for reading.**

**Sincerely,**

**Draco Ranger**

**Please not that I do not own the rights to any of these characters or the book itself.**

Screeching and Science

Gong!

With that resounding noise, the Tributes dive into the water. Some appear to be floundering, others, like Katniss, are off towards the pile of weaponry. The Mentor's Lair is pandemonium, the people from the Capitol are celebrating the death of their beloved tribunes, while the mentors are hurriedly contacting everybody from bookies to supporters of their contestant to the ultra rich. Anything for that extra edge. The support group, which includes the fashion designers and similar people, is standing listlessly, not needed or wanted. All nonessential personal are riveted to either their personal receivers or to the main holo-desplay, which is now narrated by Caesar Flickerman.

"And we have arterial spray, everybody! Nice first kill by Enobaria! Inventive idea to use her polished fingernails slash open the jugular. Then again, she did rip a person's throat out with her mouth!" Caesar takes way to much enjoyment from this...

Damn, I wish I didn't drink.

"EKKK!" Effie screams.

God, you'd think her voice box would have shattered...

"Katniss doesn't know how to swim! Why is she diving into the water?! She's going to die!"

Can't take it any more... need to leave... or get her to leave...

"Effie!" I shout. She jumps and has a deer touching electric cable look. "Can you get me..." damn, what's something she can't possibly find? "a loaf of toast?" That should keep her occupied for a few hours...

"Of course!" She twitters, possibly shattering the screen of her receiver. "It will help Katniss, right?"

"More than you can imagine..." I trail off, wincing in anticipation of the next auditory onslaught. But for once, she doesn't speak and just hurries off to the elevators.

I turn back to the holo-screen, just in time to see Katniss aim her arrow at the back of Finnick, who I had spent three sleepless nights working on to get him to agree to help her. Suddenly she releases the arrow and fires at another Tribute that had been swimming towards the pile. She appears to have accepted an alliance with him, a situation that could not have been better considering the map.

Ok, I can probably assume that at least Peeta or Katniss is going to survive, so I might as well figure out what they need. Food, Katniss can hunt just about anything. Shelter, not much of an issue, they can build one easily. Water; is the lagoon salt or fresh?

"Engage salinity scanner. Alter to hovercraft main" I call out to the technicians. The holo-screen changes to a view of the entire map with a red-blue shading pattern. A salinity scanner is a useful device that measures the electrical conductivity of a given area. With a little experience, it can be used find water, people, and traps, as all of these are made out of different materials, which allow small amounts of electricity to move at different rates. The scanner gives the background, which in this case is the coral of the lagoon, an arbitrary setting of zero and highlights it green. As calcium, the primary element in coral, is a metal, anything that is redder is very conductive and will jump out.

Three things jump out at me. At the northern end of the lagoon there is a massive tree. It is instantly recognizable as pure metal, and a very conductive one at that. The next is a small dot on the pile of weapons that appears to be almost a superconductor. The last is that the lagoon itself is fairly conductive, meaning it is probably salty and undrinkable.

If the lagoon is undrinkable, what other sources of water are available? They can construct a solar still, and get half a cup of water a day. They can chew on the plant leaves and get water that way, sort of a desperation plan but it might work. I wonder if the plants store water...

I turn to the District 12 private messenger, which is basically a secured computer that allows the mentors to get into contact with nearly anybody in Panem. I open the smart interface and say, "Can I get a botanist in here?"

In a cool female voice, the computer replies "Error... Error... Command not recognized, please try again."

Arg... I swear, no matter how much work is put into these things they never works. Fine, manual, then. I rapidly type "Command, message; Recipient, Trainers; Message, District 12 needs a botanist, end message."

The next thing I need to do is get some money to get a desalinator or something sent to Peeta and Katniss. Whom do I know that might be willing to splurge this early? Brutus? No, to uncertain. Saturnalia? No, too high a ranking. Perhaps Maximilian? He might be willing to pay, if I can give him an inside scoop...

The message command is still open, so I compose a new letter. "Max, inside scoop, worth a lot. Meet me for more details. -Haymitch" and I send it.

Within thirty seconds I get a response, "Sending ramjet, be here in 20. -Max"

Looks like he is taking me seriously enough to splurge. Things are looking u-

"I found the loaf of toast!" I hear screeching behind me. 10 minutes can't come soon enough.

**Sorry about the relative shortness, I am off the computer next week and thought I might as well send out something rather than nothing. Thanks to those who reviewed, Thanks Audrey for proof-reading, and I'll get the next chapter up as soon as possible.**


	3. The Rich and the Rockets

**Hello for the third time,**

** This chapter will be slightly longer and will be concerned with Haymitch's job as a mentor. I am trying a little more dialogue, tell me how it is working, please.**

**Thank you for reading. Please review.**

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger **

**Please note that I don't own any of the characters, the story, or any other thing that I don't own. Somewhat self-explanatory, really. **

The Rich and the Rockets

As I leave the building to go meet the Ramjet, I reflect on what I learned from the botanist...

_"...apparently all the plants on the island store water. There is simply no other way for them to survive." _The botanist had said.

_"Have you told anybody else this!? Do they know about it!?" _I practically shouted at the expert.

_"Relax, you're the first person to figure this out. I can make it so that it stays that way..."_

Ahh... the corruption of the Capitol City. If you can't bribe someone, they are obviously holding out for more money. This is the one place that Effie is useful.

_"Effie! This man wishes to be paid for services rendered!"_ I call over to her, still holding that loaf of toast. I still don't know how she got that...

As I walked off, I heard the beginnings of the negotiations. The poor man obviously didn't know what he was in for. In previous Games, experts had agreed to keep quiet just to get _her_ to be quiet. In addition, my overt performance would force the rest of the Mentors to pay a fortune to try to weasel out the shred of information, which they would probably figure out on their own anyway.

The streets are deserted, virtually everyone are indoors watching the Games. You can easily tell when a blow is struck as screams filter through open windows and doors. Hurrying to my destination, I am buffeted by shouting. The map appears to force fights much more frequently and the crowds are happy. Bloodthirsty freaks, but I digress.

Public transportation is still running, thanks to the Avox slaves and computers. I get onto a high-speed rail going towards the spaceport. The spaceport is a relatively unused transportation depot as there are no practical spacecraft. The reason it exists is because the ultra-rich, such as Maximilian, the guy I was talking to earlier, like a private place to store space capable vehicles that rich and normal people can't afford or have any reason to use. The government allows it because it gives them a place to launch satellites and scientists into space. So everybody is happy, the ultra-rich get new toys, the rich get a new thing to want, the normal people get satellite TV and ultra-def pictures of the Games, and everybody else is to starving or to beaten to care... and I get to meet a eccentric recluse on his island fortress, half way around the globe, in 20 minutes or less. Thus is progress.

Within a 10 minutes of boarding, I tip the supervising Avox and disembark into a vast underground reinforced concrete building. When I say vast, I mean VAST. The structure was designed to house several million people in the case of a nuclear war, and had the resources to do so. Giant water filtration machines, hospitals that were capable of operating solely by computer, and assembly machines that turn iron and plastic water bottles into guns. All this was ripped out and put into the Nut, a military complex run by the Capitol. Now it is filled with missile containing silos that give the ramjets the necessary thrust to start.

...And, apparently, a knock off sunglasses store, because as everybody knows the super rich are super rich because they only buy five _as_ sunglasses... Sorry there, I believe an explanation of the Capitol money system is in order. It is related to the cost of standard bullets and weapons, in the same way money used to be based on gold. The cheapest unit of money, the _as_, is worth one .22 caliber bullet or 5 cents in ancient 2012 dollars. The _Aureus_ is the most expensive and is worth a hovercraft or about 50 million ancient 2012 dollars. There is a range of currency and many specialist ways of converting the values, which will be explained as necessary. Just to put it in relation, one _Aureus _can feed, provide water, and clothe a village for a year.

Sorry about that tangent, but the sales person gave me a sudden recollection of Effie, and I do not believe that I could stand dealing with her at this point. Back to the spaceport...

"Hello sir, how may I help you today?" The salesperson appears to double as the receptionist.

"Hi, I'm looking for Maximilian's ramjet." I reply, waiting for the inevitable questions about where I'm going and other unnecessary chitchat.

Unexpectedly, she just points to one of the silos and turns to a cleverly hidden video screen. For once the Hunger Games make my life easier. Who would have thought it? Enjoying this small victory over the universe, I stroll over to the indicated silo. Once I am there, I enter the jet, suit up, and strap myself in for takeoff. Did I mention what a ramjet is? Oh, I didn't, sorry... Basically it is a plane is launched by missile into orbit, then flies off at 4000 mph. It can circle the globe in six hours, and is freakishly expensive to operate, costing almost a _Aureus_ a year in maintenance alone. I even need to get into a G-suit to prevent me from getting crushed by the acceleration, that's how fast I am going.

So, 20 minutes heart stopping minutes, and some unfortunately unused airsickness bags, later (because I can't vomit when any shred of bile is being shoved down my windpipe by a couple hundred pounds of force) I arrive at one of the most isolated areas in the world. A volcano fortress in the middle of the ocean, run by craz-, I mean, eccentric multi-billionaire, and I'm walking through the front door. The things I do for my Tribunes...

"Haymitch! So good to see you!" a voice rings out as I cross the threshold of the volcano fortress, through two 15 foot thick blast doors with automatic sentries trained on my face, "At least metaphorically speaking!"

"Good to see you Max, I hope you are in good health." I reply. Maximilian has a crippling fear of open spaces, women, germs, crowds, women, and anything he does not control, like women. Naturally, he bought an island with a dormant volcano and constructed a biohazard room in reverse. Nothing can get in without his express permission and he is very exclusive. But, he is rich, and I need a lot of money right now, so I need to put up with his insanity until I can secure enough for a tap. He has a particular issue with women.

"I am much better now that I remembered to allow hydrogen sulfide out! Thank you for asking!" He rarely speaks in less than a shout. "Now, let's get down to business! As you well know I am one of the richest people in the world. I have always desired to have more money!" He also reiterates all information leading up to deal, to avoid confusion. "You, Haymitch, sent me a message which contained information that could get me money in the future if I could give you some now! You are in charge of two tribunes, one of which just died." Uhh... News to me, wonder what happened... "but is currently being resuscitated by one of the alliance that you presumably set up to try to help them survive and let one of them win. You apparently need more money in order to be able to buy a non food item on the first day," Due to how the rules work you can buy a feast on the first day for almost nothing, but manufactured goods cost more now than at any other point. "So... how did I do?"

"Almost perfectly, Maximilian." I state, leaning back at the megaphone assisted onslaught, finally discovering where his voice is coming from. He changes the speaker and hides it in different places each time someone visits him. To the extent of my knowledge he has never been seen by another human. "You just forgot subject matter of the email." He was speaking from a particularly large sentry gun, aimed at waist height. Max doesn't like people outside his control, and will remind them at every point of how much power he has.

"Come now, you have known me long enough, call me Max!" Don't let his enthusiasm fool you. I have never met a more vicious and ruthless businessman. "Ahh, right, the email! So how can I get more money?" he screeches excitedly.

He honestly doesn't care about money, he has more than he can use. His entire personality is a facade over a cold-hearted killer. "Money guarantee first." I calmly reply.

"Fine. I will pay whatever is necessary to get Katniss out alive." His cover slips in his intentness, his calm attitude underlining how important this is. "We need her as a symbol."

"Agreed, Katniss is going to kill herself to protect Peeta and make him win. I have the plans in place to prevent this from happening, but I need the money so they won't die in the first 92 hours." I desperately reply, tipping my cards. Even if he knows why Katniss is so important, he still needs to make the decision as his persona, to give him a cover.

A few seconds pass...

"Fine, I will give you the money and go the bookies. You owe me one. "He finally replies.

Elated, I respond "Thank you, sir. And may I complement you one your fortress?"

Quietly he says, "Yes, you may. Now get out."

Mission accomplished. Now I only need to get back on the vomit rocket, go back to Effie, deal with Katniss's insanity, get other people to give me money, and live without alcohol until this is over... Damn, I need a drink.

**Next chapter done, and day one is nearly compete. Also, this is the first chapter that tries to delve deeper into the Capitol. I will try to get the next one up as soon as possible. And if you didn't like it, or you did, or you didn't have a opinion, please review and I will make changes. Thank you for the support, my current reviewers. **

**Thank you for reading,**

**Draco Ranger**


	4. Violence and Therapy

**Hi again,**

** Sorry, for the long update time. Things came up and this was bumped down to low priority. Plus Haymitch fades from being a part, so I needed to figure out something for him to do. So please comment, review, flame, or anything else you want. TELL ME HOW I AM DOING! Thank you, and thank you for reading.**

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**Note: I do not own anything mentioned in this story and am not making money off it in any way. If someone wants to pay me, PM me and we'll discuss how to do it without violating copyright laws (which I am not doing).**

Violence and Therapy

Stumbling and cursing, I practically fall out of the ramjet, finally on solid ground back in the Capitol. The giant super bunker has not changed a bit, except it may have a few more scorch marks and the receptionist appears to have fainted from excitement. Or from cheering too much, or from some other reason that I do not care about. Ramjet travel annoys me, can you tell?

Regardless of my personal feelings, I had the money, Katniss and Peeta get to live for a few more days, and I might be able to get drunk off of aftershave. Life sometimes throws you a bone, usually in the form of opportunity, but if you are lucky, in the form of household goods that are filled with restricted drugs. With that happy thought, I wander through the deserted streets of the Capitol, ignoring the shouts of bloodlust, intent on only one... maybe two... things.

A few minutes later, I arrived at the Mentor's Head Quarters while, surprisingly, not under the influence of alcohol. Entering the atrium, I am greeted by a Capitol security guard, requesting my identification, despite my required presence here for the past twenty four years. Despite my strong desire to murder or at least assault the man, I content myself with brushing past him, an event that should have worked if not for the shock batons that all crowd control guards carry as a nonlethal option.

"..." Is what I yell at the guard, my explicatives hampered by my inability to control my lungs, larynx, or mouth.

"So, you thought you could just walk by me, eh?" The guard asks, in the obligatory District 3 accent. Armored in full riot gear, all I can make out is his mouth, which has herpes scars, buck teeth, and is sewn shut. It is possible that my rage at that moment altered my perception of the man.

"... Fuc- ow" I manage to whisper before the guard stomps on my hand. Apparently the Peacekeepers here are not only incapable of recognizing the only reason they are employed but are also sadists.

"Do you know the penalty for attempting to interfere with the Games? First, you are deleted from all records. Next, you are tortured for a few months, just to get you ready for the rest of your horrible existence. Soon after, as you lie crying in your cell, they cut out your tounge and turn you into an Avox. But for you, I think we have something spec-" He asks in a heavenly voice, apparently becoming lost in the visions of my torture. Then I interrupt him.

"Do you know I am a mentor? And you have just possibly killed the District 12 Tributes?" I gasp out, not completely truthfully.

Upon hearing this, the mouth of the guard opens in fear, the skin around it turns gray, and he starts trembling. His hand jerks to his sidearm and fumbles for a moment. The gun is withdrawn and placed to the side of his head. A shot rings out. Blood splatters the wall. Then the guard starts cursing.

"Motherfuc-" He gets out before firing another shot. Apparently, the guard missed the first shot and only hit his visor, which shattered and sent shrapnel flying into his face. The second shot flattens against the bulletproof mesh of his helmet, once again not killing him. Howling in pain, the shot must have punctured his eardrums, and given him a concussion from the impact and overpressure; the hapless guard falls to the ground and passes out from the shock. He appears to be enthusiastic for his months of torture and can't wait to get started.

I leave him lying on the ground and head to the elevator. I did say that I had a strong desire to kill him, but it seems that he did it to himself.

Having successfully led to more people's deaths than Katniss, this episode doesn't bother me much more than most of the others. Then again, this is from a depressive alcoholic, so that isn't saying a lot. Still, occasional times without whisky has forced me to learn how not to be affected by sobriety and guilt, so I push the event out of my head, soon to return to my near-continuous nightmares.

As I deal with the inevitable pain that I suffer due to causing another human's death, I am greeted by a sound that makes my brain cells commit suicide, Effie's howler monkey like cheering.

Back into the elevator I go.

Thankfully, there is a private Mentor's Only section several hundred feet below the main area. This is supposed to be used as a place for the universally addicted and nervous wrecks that are the mentors to relax and get therapy, in their manner of choice. As such, there are holo-porn booths, drug injectors, a fully stocked bar, and an ordering system for prostitutes of all shapes, sizes, colors, and physical "improvements." There is even a clown and mime, along with several bats and sharp implements, not necessarily to be used together, but the creeps are always on morphine [Yes, I know its morphling, but if the bird names, plant names, and weapon names all remain the same, I don't see why the name of a medical item which generally has the name written on the bottle would be changed. This will probably also apply to "muttations" in the future. -Draco] and some people can't help but take a whack at the most creepy thing created so far. If you are truly desperate, there is even a therapist.

"Hi, Haymitch!" Shouted the ever peppy and upbeat therapist, Ms. Stultus.

"Go die in a ditch." I reply. I have a theory, since that nobody likes peppy people, they can't be in heaven as it wouldn't be heaven for other people. In addition, they can't go to hell, as they would be immune to the torture that it gives. As such, they must go to purgatory, where they will be trapped for all existence, with nothing but themselves, slowly going insane, crushed in the white fog that is their plot in the afterlife, knowing nothing, learning nothing, and feeling nothing. Plus her name is stupid. I don't really like many people, have you noticed?

"Right-o!" She replies, before turning to the mimes. Ahh, never a more fitting torture for such unholy creatures, one who never stops speaking must talk to one who never speaks!

Finally excused from the horrors of the pep and the mime, I head over to a computer. I close the whore interface, which is filled with the many prostitutes I could order, and pull up the purchase page. The purchase page is where Mentors buy new items for their Tributes. I am not as skilled with this as most of the other Mentors, but I know it fairly well from last year. The different items are placed by category, with more expensive items being sold by custom order. Pulling up a spile, a hollow tube that is used to collect plant sap or, in this case, water [Seriously, they forget the name for morphine but remember "Spile," which happens to be so obscure that Word refuses to accept it as a word? Whatever. -Draco]. I check out the price, which fortunately is well within what Max gave me and what he should make on betting with the inside information.

Before ordering, I receive a message saying the first day is nearly over, with highlights. Standard gory stuff, a lot of people died, the career Tributes banded together, arguments over whether all of them are career Tributes, an agreement to rename what used to be career Tributes to be the Westerns and for Katniss's team to be the Easterns. Katniss created a fairly large team, how Katniss and Peeta are in love, and, finally, the odds. Apparently, Peeta has middling odds while Katniss is getting 1:2. Considering that there are 15 murderous fiends, sorry "old friends," left this is very unusual. I was very surprised that Katniss actually followed my instructions and banded together with decent fighters rather than the cripples. With this in mind, I send a message to the Mentors of Districts 4 to come down and discuss how we should work together and aid our Tributes.

As it was nearing midnight at the Capitol, and the island was about 5 hours behind us, with a sunset at about 20:00, I needed to send the order as soon as possible so that the Easterns would be able to actually figure out what I was sending them and use it. Although I should notify the rest of the Eastern team Mentors to what I was doing, time was of the essence, and I purchased the spile. It would be sent to the Easterns as at the earliest convenience and hopefully they would know how to use it without destroying it. My work is done.

Looking at the bar and drug injectors I have an idea. I did say I would stop drinking, but I never said there weren't other ways of taking in alcohol... Well, hopefully there will be a Happy Haymitch tonight and Hangover Haymitch won't kill anybody tomorrow. I can finally get a drink.

**Day One is just about done, maybe a little more about how the Tributes finally figure out how to use the spile. The next chapters will be concerned with the rebellion and Haymitch's role in it. Thank you people who reviewed, thank you people who read this, and thank you Ms. Collins for making such a good book. Audrey and Beth, thanks for reading this over in addition to the many things that eat up your time, you're both awesome!**

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**P.S. I may state more of my opinions in the story, depending on what I find stupid and what I refer to.**

**P.P.S. Stultus (the Therapist) means stupid in Latin (OK, it literally means foolish, but its close enough). A lot of the Capitol is based on the Roman Empire, so that is where I am getting most of my names. **

**Thank you ****moonlight goose**** and ****iligar516**** for the support and the reviews, sorry it took so long to respond. **


	5. Addiction and Alcohol

**Hello again,**

** This chapter contains minor spoilers for Mocking Jay and major spoilers for Catching Fire, so be forewarned. Sorry for inserting comments in the text and not warning about the violence in the last chapter. I am fairly new to this and will not do it again. This chapter primarily concerns the rebellion and the fifth column inside the Capitol. It also has drunk Haymitch, more Maximilian, and possibly the star of the next fanfiction I am planning on making. Please review, comment, critique, or just mindlessly blather. I will attempt to respond to every review and thank you for your input. Thank you for reading.**

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**P.S. For some reason, doesn't like the asterisk symbol, which I was using to denote time change, so it's now replaced with the )()( symbol I made up. If there was ever a random change in perspective and it wasn't explained, this is why.**

** Warnings-Spoilers, cursing, and drug use.**

** If I owned the Hunger Games, I would be rich. I am not rich so I don't own the Hunger Games. I am not making any money off of this. **

Addiction and Alcohol

Despite the imminent meeting, I decide to try the injectable alcohol, as it is different enough from drinking to be acceptable. I know this isn't true in the least, but I have a crippling addiction to alcohol and need it to prevent me from flipping out and killing someone. I also know that isn't true, but screw you, person I'm thinking to/ conscience. I have been through a lot today, I need to cool off.

And with that cheery thought, I cross over to the bar and order a shot of New! Rot-Artery Brand injectable alcohol, as it is the first item under the category. There is also Pabst Blue Blood and Thunderbird "We're too drunk to think up a blood related pun" Injections. All of which seen like they will cause me to vomit... er... expel my vascular system.

Nevertheless, I place my order, ignoring possible death, probable alcohol poisoning, and certain embarris...

"Wait! What the F*CK!" The arrival of the syringe interrupted my internal monologue of rationalization and cynicism, replacing it with any drunk's greatest enemy, a shortchanging bartender. The syringe had less than 1/4 of an oz. of fluid.

Used to the overreactions of the Mentors, or possibly incapable of showing expressions because of a stress related stroke, the bartender remained blank-faced, stating "This is 200 proof alcohol. It is equivalent to about five drinks because it bypasses the digestive tract. I'm not going to give you more."

"Well, thank you so god d*mn much, for your concern." I spit back with as much venom as I can muster. Grabbing the syringe, I jam it into my carotid artery, depress the plunger, and storm out, grumbling to myself.

"D*mn idiot, thinks he knows more than me..." I mutter on the way to the meeting with District 4, plus others. Suddenly, my brain fogs up, pushing me from sober to flat out drunk while flipping the bird to tipsy. Crisht. Shh*t. Now... Now where was I going? Something about meat... meater... meetly... meetING! Yeah, that's it. Now where do I go...

"I thought this floor was flat." I complain while stumb- stumbling around. Hey! There's someone. I fall towards him, and land flat on my face.

"Hey, hey buddy." I gargle out. "Can you bring me to the secret meeting?" He looks around terrified, searching for dragons or something. Looking at me, I get a better look at him. Both of him are from District 4? no. 11? no. 7? Eh, close enough.

The Mentor pulls out a private massager and starts to press buttons. I take this moment to relieve myself against a wall. BOY! My kidneys are sure getting a workout.

I turn back to the mentor who is swinging a lamp from a wall at me. "Och" I say on contact, before falling to the ground. Soon I start to see bright lights in the sides of my vis- vision and pass out.

)()(

Oww... why is the light so bright? Uhh, I slowly raise my head off what appears to be a seat cushion. "Ok, whatsh up?" I slur hoping someone will be able to respond.

"Ahh, Haymitch! So good for you to join us!" Someone shouts into my ear, exacerbating my impending/ occurring hangover.

"Max?" I quietly inquire, dreading the response.

"SO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE! EXCELLENT!" I silently question the reasons for my existence. "We just started the meeting! And Ms. Effie Trinket just walked in!" Why do the gods hate me so?

My thoughts of suicide, and how to go about such a thing while nearly in a coma, were interrupted by an unexpected voice "You were found speaking of the rebellion in public. Why have you done such a thing? You know the punishment for such a transgression is death." The sinister voice states in a tone that guarantees intense pain in the future. It is spoiled by a gruff voice muttering "Like you've ever killed anyone..."

This completely throws the speaker off. "What the h*ll, man?" he asks in a normal voice, which for him happens to be almost Jamaican, or at least some unusual accent. I have never heard people speak from Jamaica, but for some reason this idea is sticking in my head. And my cognitive processes seem to be picking up. Yippie, now I can truly concentrate on my life that is nothing but misery. But my thoughts interrupted the previous speaker who is currently going through a rant.

"...if we're going to go through with attempting to overthrow the Capitol, we can't let people interrupt willy-nilly. Rebellion demands order, dedication, adherence to leaders, and we can't simply throw off these demands every time we feel like it. I mean, come on, none of you ever wear the Robes of Infinite Obscurity that I made for everyone. Now everybody knows everyone else. If one of us was captured, the Capitol could find out about all out plans! Wh-" He ranted, increasing in volume as he got into his stride before being interrupted by another person.

"Relax, if the Capitol thought we were rebelling, they would have already had us killed. We're just an informal group that is discussing alternative political views. And your yelling that we're not taking security seriously enough is sort of defeated by the fact that you are shouting about how we're in rebellion." The gruff speaker said calmly.

Jamaica-man replied "Of course you would think that, Commander Lee. You have spent your life sucking up to the Capitol, carrying out military campaigns on their behalf. How can you live with yourself after everything you have done?" Commander Lee is infamous in the Districts for his hard-line approach to war and rebellion. If he is against the Capitol, there is more support than I thought...

The back and forth bickering goes on for some time, with Effie chiming in every so often. Eventually she asks about why I am not asleep or shouting, and gets the reply that I have been injected with a stabilizer that will allow me to function now but prevents the alcohol from being processed until it gets out of my system. With that cheery thought, I tune out the arguments about the overthrow of the current system of government and enjoy the semi-pain free state I am experiencing.

)()(

F*ck, I am exp- expern- feel drunkerer now than before. The lites are out, I get to my feet, all four of them. and fall on my face. Crap. In my befutt- buffettl- f*cked-up state I grab the wall, fall again, again, got it and start to hobble out. Woah... F*cking stairs... Sh*t... Uhh... *blink* *blink* (Sober Haymitch apparently hasn't had much practice with New! Rot-Artery Brand injectable alcohol mixed with experimental anti-alcohol stabilizers, and has lost all semblance of mental control. Narration will be taken over by Effie.)

)()(

"Ohh, HElloooo. Are you Haymitch's friends? He is such a devil. Well, chop-chop, let's get along to Haymitch and remind him of the Meeting!" Effie narrated in her even higher pitched mental voice, not unlike that of a terrified goat.

Sashaying along the well-lit hall with red oak paneling and excretory stains every so often, I quickly happen upon the drunk Haymitch.

"Haymitch, my dear! It is time to go to bed, you need to keep Katniss alive!" I practically squeal in my excitement to be finally doing something good for Panem. He stops... uhh... excreting against the wall long enough to look blearily at me. By the anguished expression on his face, he must be thrilled to see me and completely capable preventing the death of the only people who care about him.

With this completely logical and well thought out plan, I call for an Avox to help Haymitch and head off to make other people's days better.

)()(

"F*cking Christ, I can't stand that b*tch." Thought the Avox GOV-758, who passed by Effie as she hurried off to cause misery to unfortunate souls. Shuttering slightly at this thought, 758 slowly walked towards Haymitch, becoming more and more annoyed with him as time continued.

"Is it so difficult to take a piss in a bathroom?" 758 thought angrily, dreading the inevitable task of cleaning up after the kidneys of an alcohol OD victim. He paused at a particularly brown stain, indicating that the depositor was very dehydrated and could be suffering from kidney failure.

Dreading the punishments that would occur if a Mentor died, 758 picked up his pace and hurried to Haymitch's side. A quick check for a pulse and respiration indicated that Haymitch was in an alcohol induced coma, while a look at the ground showed that he was dehydrated to the point where he literally couldn't put out liquids.

"Crap, crap, crap..." 758 repeatedly as though a mantra, hoping desperately that the evil god that is above us all would relieve his endless torment of Avoxes and not let one of them be tortured into death or mutated in the near future, particularly the one thinking this.

Using a med kit, 758 pulled out an adrenaline patch and slapped it onto Haymitch, forcing him out of the coma. He then requested a medical team to help the Mentor, and started a saline drip to help with the dehydration and reduce the levels of alcohol in his blood stream. His job done, 758 stepped away, faded into the shadows, and set about repairing the priceless red wood paneling Haymitch damaged, praying that he survives the night.

**And the first cliff hanger ending comes to a close. Will Haymitch survive? Will Commander Lee kill Jamaica-man? Will Avox GOV 758 ever be seen again? **

**On to the normal conclusion. **

** Thank you everybody who read this. Thank you Beth and Audrey for proof reading, once again you are both AWESOME. Thank you CERN for making the internet. And THANK YOU reviewers being awesome enough to say what you think about the story.**

egoats- Sure. Let's go with that. 

**Hunger Games Hungry- Thank you for the support.**

**missyork29- Thank you for agreeing with the basis of the story.**

**moonlight goose- Thank you for reviewing TWICE! and thank you again for the support.**

**sghope16- Fair point about the Morphling/ Morphine thing. I will consider that and keep it in mind. Thank you for the support and thorough review. **

** Please review, it makes my job easier to know if I am overdoing something, if something is annoying, or if you want to see someone again. I will respond to all reviews and I hope you enjoyed reading. **

** Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**P.S. If enough people say they like someone, I might choose them (either the person reviewing or the character or both) for the next fanfiction. **

**P.P.S. The update will be quicker than normal, so you will not be in suspense for too long. **


	6. Capitolites and Ciphers

**Hello again,**

** This chapter contains more spoilers Catching Fire and Mocking Jay. Enjoy and please review. Thank you.**

** Sincerely,**

**Draco Ranger**

**I do not own any of the trademarked people, ideas, or creations within this text. All the ones that are not trademarked I am not able to sell either. They are my intellectual property, although I do not make money off of them. **

Capitolites and Ciphers

Uhh... I blinked slowly into the bright lights, letting my eyes adjust to what was most obviously not the meeting place. Oww... hangover, haven't had one this bad since I ate 20 of those alcoholic gelatin deserts. Then, I needed to get my stomach pumped. I wonder what they do with inject-

A man standing just outside my vision interrupted my train of thought, "You gave us quite a scare. I've never seen someone inject .05 liters of Rot-artery and survive before. We needed to add about 500 g of medical activated carbon to your bloodstream to keep it from shutting down, and then we put you on dialysis for a few cycles. So, on that note, you will be peeing black for the next few weeks and it is possible that the inside of your veins will be yellow for the foreseeable future. Other than that you should be fine, but you will have a headache and need to stay away from high pitched noises for a while." Someone who I assumed was a doctor stated with the learned bedside manner all new doctors have. However, he did save my life and answer my question, so he is not added to the must-kill list, yet.

"Thank, doc." I state, and then felt my hangover throb. Apparently, they haven't given me a painkiller or rehydrated me. On to the must-kill list he goes.

The doctor says, with a smile in his voice. "You probably don't want to talk, it will exacerbate your hangover," he states after the fact, before continuing, "You should be fine within a day and up and around in two. Until then, you must stay sedated in bed..."

Opening my mouth to object, he beats me by continuing "... normally. In your case, I will have your personal messenger brought to you. Your team will be assisting you in helping your tribunes..." Oh god, that means that E- "...except for Ms. Trinket, as she appears to interfere with ultrasound equipment, and is rather difficult to work around." Feel my pain doc. Feel 24 years of doing just that.

Apparently finishing his little speech, and anticipating that I would be unable to call him back, the doctor opened the door and walked out, leaving me alone and sober for the first time in ages. Thus, I finally had time to think. Oh, god WHY!?

To delay the virtually certain Post Traumatic Stress Disorder type flashbacks I experience, I force myself to think about random stuff, realistic plans, eventual goals, and hobbies that would hopefully get me off drink at some point. I don't really expect that to actually to happen, but even I am not entirely un-self-aware and know that drinking is either a temporary fix or a permanent end.

)()(

Despite my attempts at the contrary, as with all recent dreams, musings, and idle time, my thoughts inevitably turned to the Games and beyond. The current games are about as loaded as it can be. The Gamemaster is rebelling against the Capitol and he believes that Katniss actually matters. She is practically setting herself up to be a figurehead... Ahh, the little rebellion, a substantial portion of which is made up of Capitolites. There is nothing sadder than a self-loathing Capitolian. But the city practically breeds them. A decent percentage of the upper class hates the Capitol, while enabling it to exist. The lower class is usually too drunk or to obsessed with fashion to do anything about it.

Honestly, this rebellion is the same as any of the others. People are fighting to replace a group of other people who are too incompetent to have actually done what people accuse them of, with a group of self-obsessed egomaniacs who will claim to fix everything just to get popular support. But both the rebels and the ruling people need the same money, which is owned by people like Maximilian, and that gives them power. Max, Max, Max. He is the principal reason that this rebellion can even take place. How else would a rebel group cut off 75 years ago get ultra high tech weaponry? Who else could bribe a hovercraft crew to "die" and crash land in the forbidden zones? Regardless of the philosophy, the rich stay in power or they move to where they are safe. This uprising is going to change nothing. I'm just working with the rebellion because President Snow is on my Must-Kill list for reducing the alcohol content in my favorite drink and killing off my entire family. I take that list seriously, nobody messes with my self-medication.

)()(

Those cheery, pro-rebellion thoughts are interrupted by a nurse who bringing in my private messenger. Knowing I am in for an onslaught of noise, I mute it as it turns on, and engage the speech to text feature. Then I do something I have never done before... I call Effie.

"..." I hear over the messenger, joyful at having discovered the perfect way of contacting Effie. I am momentarily in heaven. Assuming she is talking about the Games, I pull up a scrolling commentary by Caesar Flickerman. Caesar enjoys obscenely lengthy messages, minutely detailing every possible detail in a scene. This is why everyone in Panem can know the exact composition of the metal that makes up the aglets on the Tribute's shoes, the exact amount of calories burned when suffering from a shoulder wound and blisters while running from a mutant that is 3 meters tall, and the exact radial force necessary to cleave a wind pipe so it prevents breathing but doesn't cause decapitation or arterial spray. Believe me, you do not want to see the entire series of messages Caesar rattles off constantly.

So, I turn on a commentary of Caesar's commentary , instantly reducing long unwieldy messages to one or two sentences. "And there you have it folks, Katniss and her team have figured out the traps in the Arena! They are now virtually immune to anything the Gamemaster might throw at them!" The shortening tends to make the nuances of the games disappear, but it should be sufficient for speaking with Effie.

Oh, shi... I forgot about her. Minimizing the commentary, but keeping the audio, "...and with the food supplies provided by the mentors, Katniss and co. should be set for a LONG time...", I bring up Effie, prepared to apologize for the first time in 24 years, but she hasn't even noticed. All I can see from here is a long stream of run on sentences, the dysfunctional nature of which I will not relate. Suffice it to state, I discovered that Effie's voice could hurt my eyes as well as my ears.

I state into the messenger "Hi, Effie, can you put Cinna on?" Cinna is Katniss's clothing designer and happens to be a far better assistant than Effie. Not much praise, truthfully, but an accurate statement nonetheless. I rapidly receive a reply. _I doughnut no where he is. He hasnt ben sein science be 4 the games start ed._ The AI who controls the speech to text feature was once asked what 1/0 is. Since then it has devoted 99.7% of its RAM to working on the problem. Therefore, it consistently fails. Miserably.

"Ok, Effie, if Cinna isn't there, can you put on another mentor?" I reply. A look of confusion passes over her face. I clarify, "I mean one of the mentors of our alliance." I thought that my statement was fairly self clarifying, considering that I am the only mentor on our team and Katniss and Peeta are in an alliance with other Tribunes who have mentors. For once Effie decides not to speak and simply nods, then hurries over to another District, instantly causing them to scatter. Eventually, Effie manages to get one of the Mentors to stop fleeing long enough to come over to the District 12 messenger and communicate with me.

Surprisingly it is Jamaica man that answers. Honestly, you would have thought that after working as a Mentor for such a long time, I would actually know everybody's name, and what district has a Jamaican accent. But no. That's what alcohol does to your brain. Memory loss. Yep... What was I thinking about? Right. Jamaica man.

Jamaica man walks towards the communicator, pulls out a memory stick, sends me an email, and walks off. I guess I irritated him somehow. Ignoring this slight, and deciding to not put him on the Must-Kill list, I pull up his message, which reads...

**To: Mr. Abernathy**

**From: Richards Hammingfest **

**Subject: Games**

**Do dn odhz ajm pn oj mzwzggdjn. Rz rdgg wz agtdib jop ojibco. Rz rdgg kdxf pk ocz Omdwpizn viy bj oj Ydnomdxo 13. Ocz Xvkdojg rdgg avgg! Rz rdgg xmzvoz kzvxz, epxodxz, viy amzzyjr. Gjib Gdqz ocz Mzwzggdjn. Gjib Gdqz ocz Mzwzggdjn!**

**Mdxcvmyn Cvrrdibazno**

**(Richards Hammingfest)**

Ok, then. Either Hammingfest, presumably Jamaica man, knows a very unusual language, or he tried to encode it. So, it is probably a simple direct translation, which is more likely as he actually put his name into both. So probably an offset cipher as that A is not an Z. What is the keyword though? Let's see. H to C is five letters off, so I wonder if that's the offset.

Might as well try it out.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

#####ABCDEF GHIJKLMNOPQRSTU

VWXYZ

Translating, and the final product is...

To: Mr. Abernathy

From: Richards Hammingfest

Subject: Games

It is time for us to begin the rebellion. We will be flying out tonight. We will pick up the Tribunes and go to District 13. The Capitol will fall! We will create peace, justice, and freedom. Long Live the Rebellion. Long live the Rebellion!

Richards Hammingfest

(Richards Hammingfest)

Well that was fun. The result was appropriately crass to act as a good red herring. There is no way something so easy to crack is the actual code. Any decent rebel would have an alternating cipher, preferably mechanical to prevent computer intrusion, with multiple possible answers, and no possibility of direct translation. I mean, he wouldn't actually be stupid enough to send a message like this over a Capitol monitored network, in such a simple code that a brute force program could decipher it within seconds. HA HA HA. Wait... would he? No, he would not be that dumb, heh, heh. Oh, god, please don't tell me he's that dumb. Ohh, sh*t.

"Hey, doc? Can I get some alcohol to go?"

**Thank you for reading. The next chapter will probably be the last one in this fic. I hope you have enjoyed it so far. Thank you Beth and Audrey for reviewing, you are both great! Thank you for reading. Thank you followers for denoting that I am good enough for you to receive a message about this work. Thank you reviewers, you make this all seem worth it. **

**moonlight goose- thank you for the support and I hope you like how the story is going. **

**To everybody reading this, please review. I will mention you by name and reply to anything you send me. **

**Sincerely,**

**Draco Ranger**


	7. The Beginning of the End

**Hello for the last time,**

** This is the final chapter in the Catching Fire, a Mentor's Perspective fanfiction. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it. **

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**Warnings, Spoilers of Catching Fire and Mockingjay**

**Please note, this is a work of fiction based on a fictional world. It is fiction squared and is not done for profit. Most characters are the property of Suzanne Collins and are used with implied permission (or at least without direct denial).**

The Beginning of the End

The streets are eerily quiet and completely deserted for some time now. Before people were hurrying through the streets, anxious to get back inside, now there is no one. There is little activity outside, apart from some government transports and emergency vehicles. It is the same as it was yesterday and the day before that, and feels like it could go on forever. The entire world seems to be blanketed with anticipation.

All at once, a roar is heard from every window, every open door, every public display module. The end is beginning. Soon the games will be over and the Third Quarter Quell will be finished.

)()(

Almost a thousand miles away, in a secret bunker, an encoded message is intercepted. It is decoded with almost worrying ease. The world waits with bated breath, anticipating the order that will plunge humanity into chaos. Four words can be heard.

"Plan A is go."

This triggers a flurry of activity. Orders are yelled, computers are activated, and stimulants are injected or ingested.

)()(

On an island in the middle of a massive body of water, a different but similar picture begins. A group of people, young and old, men and women, scratch out a plan to commit murder while being stalked by cameras and contestants. They are blissfully unaware of their impending doom, either to be pawns in a game between two dictatorships or to be killed as asset denial. They fear death, but have encountered it before. Their death will not be a surprise.

)()(

In a mansion, a man with sores in his mouth contemplates the death of thousands, if not millions. His upbringing does not allow for introspection, and he merely looks at the thousands of dead as a minor inconvenience, one that will be replaced within two decades by increasing the food allotment to the slave states. He knows that he may lose, but does not think it is likely, the defenses he has created in his city and around himself are too powerful, and a certain Tribune has been brainwashed into obeying him. With a glance of annoyance, he responds to the only other person in the room, a courier, with a simple order.

"Kill them all."

)()(

High above the only patch of light within miles, a group of mercenaries awaits an order from their superior. They are onboard a stealth hovercraft. A more heavily armored and upgunned version of the normal hovercraft, it gains the stealth moniker by exchanging the normal huge rotors for ion charged discs and the standard ominous black for active camouflage. In effect, a stealth hovercraft is virtually silent and nearly invisible, while containing enough firepower to level most of a city as well as being accurate enough to hit the brainstem on a jumping flea. Hugely expensive, the impossible-to-detect nature and endurance of stealth hovercraft more than make up for the cost, while the destructive capabilities far exceed any price that can be paid. Inside, an auto-sentry transmits video feed to the financer through an encoded direct satellite feed to the owner, giving said hugely rich owner the control he needs over the venture.

The cabin is very quiet, apart from a humming sound from the generators and the computers. The monitors of the computers display two pictures. One is from the weapons systems and is focused on a building. The target is an unlit hospital, and while the mercs are unsure if they are going to be ordered to destroy it or take someone out of it, they are mentally ready and equipped to easily accomplish either task.

The other is of a dark hallway, feed from a helmet cam belonging to the commander. It is within the hospital. The commander just cut the power and started moving to extract the target.

Over the radio a voice is heard, "Nearing the target, hostiles are entering the room, going in hot."

)()(

Suddenly the lights went out, plunging the room into total darkness. I hear heavy footfalls and the screams of other patients and nurses. I cringe, expecting my hangover to flare up again, but it doesn't. Hurray for small pleasures. Groping underneath my bed, I pull out something no man should leave home without... his pants. Hurriedly putting them on, I hear the footsteps end outside my room.

"Pass -e th- br-chin- -arge" a muffled voice demands outside my room. Two things become strikingly clear, one, Jamaica-man Hammingfest was taken seriously and has put the entire fifth column of the resistance in danger and, two, they don't realize the door is unlocked. Bracing for the explosion, I cower behind my bed, knowing the shock will temporarily give the assaulter an advantage. Instead of the expected explosion, I hear two muffled shots, and two thuds. Great, now at least one coldblooded killer is trying to get in and is willing to commit murder to do so.

I hear a click and the door opens, revealing a bulky form wearing tactical gear. I raise my hands to indicate I'm unarmed. The soldier crosses over to me and forces my hands behind my back, which he restrains, before leading me out of the room. He keeps me in front of him the entire way, a large assault rifle moving back and forth, covering all angles and protecting against any ambush.

His paranoia is merited as a gunshot rings out and a hiding peacekeeper aims for a second shot. The soldier quickly reacts and unleashes a sustained burst on the peacekeeper. There is little left except mush. Gagging, I am forced onward and upwards, entering a stairwell. Here, the soldier drops a smoke grenade down and throws one onto one of the upper floors.

Shouts ring out, "Grenade!" and thuds are heard as people forcibly exit the stairwell from above and below. Taking advantage of the confusion, the soldier quickly drags me into the forming smoke cloud, up towards the roof. I desperately try to think of what could be the final destination. I'm hoping that there is going to be a hovercraft, but decades of cynical thinking forces the conclusion that we are going to escape through some horribly contrived method that will lead to the deaths of numerous innocents. Thankfully, we are in the Capitol, so there arn't enough innocents for us to kill a significant number of them.

The commando appears to be thinking along similar lines as he continues to move up the stairs, using the smoke as cover. Rapidly, I find out that the smoke has an irritant contained within it. Soon I start coughing, and am choked off as the commando strangles me. He shoves me against a wall as gunfire is aimed at the point where I coughed. It dies out and the soldier forces me up the stairs. He fires into the smoke, evicting a few yells. Apparently he has supervision.

As we near the top of the hospital, we only have one corridor left to traverse before reaching the helipad. Delighted at being so close to escaping I start to move faster than the commando anticipates. As soon as I pass by an intersection I am jumped by two peacekeepers. If that isnt a metaphor for my life I don't know what is. Just as I am about to reach freedom, I am assaulted by two sweaty men about the kill the sh#t out of me, the freedom representing my ability to not be f#cked over by the Capitol and the two sweaty men representing the Capitol, or my repressed memories, either works.

While I am composing this internal monologue, the commando double taps each of the men, killing them instantly. I am showered in blood and bone fragments, just like my 16th birthday! Apparently, my brain is not processing good because of the stress. Shucks... SH*T!

Ignoring my obvious distress, the soldier continues moving forward, grabbing me by the shirt and forcing me into a lurching run. The smoke in the stairwell is fading and we are receiving fire from that location. Elevator doors ping open and more peacekeepers are pouring out into the hallway. The commando slows momentarily to toss a smoke grenade and then redoubles his efforts to get me outside. Bullets are flying all around us and the commando is using his body to protect me. He groans a few times, the first sound he has made without a weapon, but continues to move forward.

By this point we have reached the end of the hallway, and are stuck at the door to the hover-pad. The commando tests the door and finds that it is locked. He turns to me and pulls out a knife. I shirk away, terrified that he is going to kill me. He doesn't alleviate my fears by grabbing my arm and turning me around, facing towards the smoke cloud. I close my eyes, praying to any deity that might exist. Instead of a close shave, I feel a tugging on my arms. It seems that he is cutting my bindings. Surprised, I jerk away, and am rewarded with a shallow slice along my hand. The soldier ignores this and cuts away the rest of my bindings.

I celebrate my freedom momentarily, until a better aimed bullet whistles over my head. Then I duck. The commando motions me to hide with him behind a large pot filled with soil. The dirt is taking the energy out of the bullets and is acting as good cover.

The commando then grabs me and forces something into my hand, shortly thereafter giving me his assault rifle. He states in a voice muffled by his headgear, "It's dangerous to fight without a gun, take this," before turning to the lock and taking out some square blocks and metal cylinders.

Nervously looking at the gun, I see that it has a magazine in the stock of the gun and a thermal sight. This is probably how he managed to kill the guards at the top of the stairs. Mentally pulling up everything I know about guns (the opening points away and pull the little metal thingy to shoot), I turn down the smoke-filled hallway and pull the gun into a natural position. This lines up the sight with my eye and reveals the position of all the guards. Huh, smart.

The sight reveals a cool blue corridor with flat pink people and red hearts. I move the little x into the middle of one the people and pull the trigger. The gun jumps into my shoulder, immediately bruising it. Blinking off the pain, I look back into the sight and see two people over the guy I just shot. Pulling the gun into my shoulder, I fire again. This time it doesn't hurt and I am rewarded with the two I was aiming at clutching at their armor... and they shrug off the shots. The person on the ground I must have hit somewhere without armor. I start to fire more shots, hoping to hit a place that will kill one of them. Time slows down, I am entering the zone. I level the rifle at one of their heads and pull the trigger. -Click- Out of ammo.

Ohhh, sh####t... Hearing the click, the peacekeepers start to charge. Desperately fumbling to extract the clip, I realize that the commando shoved a grenade into my hand along with the rifle. I pull the pin and throw it towards the peacekeepers. Strangely, it doesn't go off immediately, and one of the peacekeepers yells out "We're not going to be fooled by another smoke bomb!"

I am momentarily worried and start to cower behind the pot, waiting to die. My life begins to flash before my eyes... I see- **BOOM!** The grenade I threw just detonated, obliterating the passage in all directions. When the smoke clears, I look in appreciation at the new coat of red paint on the walls, floor and ceiling. I am a little turned off by the piles of liquefied humans and bone fragments, but overall, I like the décor. The pot is epically nice now that it is completely destroyed and shattered, demonstrating the decay of humanity and its ability to weather a high explosive blast. As it has saved my life several times over, I give into a little sentimental feeling and take a shard for a remembrance.

By this time the commando had finished setting the breaching charge and detonated it without consulting my, which led me to reflexively pull the trigger of his gun in his direction. He also reacted on reflex and twisted the gun out of my arms, breaking two fingers, and spraining my wrist.

Looking at his feet guiltily (I'm assuming, he is still completely covered in armor and gear), the commando gruffly says "Sorry," and reloads the gun. As soon as the new clip clicks in, the soldier kicks the door open, and checks the area. He calls "Clear," perhaps thinking I can do something with my handicapped hands or from reflex, then throws down a flare. It lights up the roof, making us a prime target for snipers.

A few seconds later, I see a huge hovercraft a few meters above my head, neither hearing nor otherwise detecting it a moment earlier. The commando says, with a grin in his voice, "Here's our ride."

A door opens in the bottom of the hovercraft, disgorges a squad of special operations troops, and then lowers to touch down. The squad provides cover, while the commando walks towards the hovercraft. He indicates that I should follow. Once inside he points me to a bunk, which makes me realize I am completely exhausted. I fall onto the bunk and am asleep within minutes.

)()(

After an indeterminate period, I eventually wake up. The sun is streaming through the gun ports and armored windows of the hovercraft, but I am unsure when or where I am. Unsteadily I rise to my feet and look around for the first time. I am apparently in a converted bomb bay as there is a sealed crack running along the length of the floor. The interior of the craft has intelligence items and computers competing with rifles and ammo boxes. The intel features indicate a headquarters while the sheer amount of bullets almost demand that this be a troop transport. As I am puzzling over this simple quandary, I slowly walk over to one of the windows. I gaze out over an endless expanse of sea, which is RIGHT BELOW ME! It is literally 5 feet under me; the windows are actually spotted by the sea salt. Suddenly terrified of death at sea, I back away from the window and accidently bump into someone.

"AHH! oh. Sorry about that." I quickly apologize to the bumpee. The sudden rush of terror caused by the ocean to a person who has never learned to swim or been in a decent size lake is rather overpowering.

The bumpee waves off my apology and asks to see my hand. I hold out my hand and see that it is bandaged. Right, I broke two fingers... Forgot about that...

He examines the hand and quickly comes to a conclusion. In the standard doctor tone he states, "Your hand will recover shortly" before walking off. Apparently, the military discourages overly talkative doctors. Already, they are my favorite medical provider.

Surprised by his quick dismissal, I start to follow him to ask more questions. As I do, the hovercraft banks by 30 degrees to the left and at least 45 up, instantly toppling me and reinjuring my hand. The medic somehow remains on his feet and sighs.

He turns around and helps me to my feet before taking out a shard injector and blasting me with something. I feel the pain in my fingers and wrist drop from being my primary concern to unnoticeable, while also feeling partially paralyzed. The medic resets my fingers by the simple expedient of pulling the joints out of their sockets and shoving them into place, an event, which, while it doesn't hurt, causes by brain to project pain from seeing my body abused in such a way. I then feel a rush of happiness as the shards force my brain to release endorphins to deal with the injury.

The medic then helps me up and puts away the shard gun. Shard guns are the military's response to easily breakable hypodermic needles. The medicine is converted into a low melting metallic crystal, which lines up when exposed to a magnetic field. The crystal's design allows for points sharper than scalpels, and the gun simply projects a magnetic field forward to inject it. It is a descendent of the gauss cannon and is much easier to use than needles in combat. The downside is that the needles hurt like a b#tch and can increase the chance of infection. An antipathogenic and an endorphin booster remedy this.

The medic says to me "The Commander wants to speak with you." You can hear the capitalization in his voice. "Now." Well, I'm off to see the commander.

)()(

Eventually, after several more falls and a near decapitation, I end up at the bridge of the hovercraft. There is a seven foot tall 250 lbs. (110 kg.)-of-pure-muscle man at the central column. I cross over to him and ask if he is the commander. I will never forget his response.

"Ohhh, nooo," he thrilled. Christ, I found Effie in male form. "Hees right over thereee." He finishes with what can only be described as a finger pirouette. I resist my gag reflex and turn to where his finger eventually ended up.

And I see Commander Lee. For the first time that we have met, I am not drunk or otherwise intoxicated. I can finally describe him in terms that actually make sense. He is fairly tall, about 6 feet, always wears a beret, and looks like a stereotypical sergeant, with a better uniform. On second thought, sobriety does not make my powers of description any better.

Lee quickly fills me in "We have reached the island where the Tribunes are being held. We are going to extract them. You will calm down Katniss as she tends to act irrationally in bad circumstances, and prevent her from attacking anyone. We will then go to the other side of the world and drop you off at District 13 (the one that is rebelling and I am working with), we will then fly back towards the Capitol and begin the war against the peacekeepers. Any questions?"

"Why did you rescue me, alert the Capitol, who has hovercrafts stationed everywhere at the games, fly into the middle of the Pacific over several hours, plan on saving people who could have been killed within seconds of my disappearance or Hammingfest's idiotic letter, then fly all the way back to the other side of the world, with a potentially unstable murderer on board?" I ask.

Commander Lee smiles and says "For the same reason that the Capitol is sending all their hovercraft to bomb District 12, but will not attack any of the other Districts in the same way."

"Politics and damage control?" I respond.

"Yes" He finishes. He then says "You should probably go below, we'll be fighting the Capitol hovercraft in a few minutes."

I reply, "I would prefer to stay."

He states "I meant it as a nonaggressive order. Major Richards, please remove Mr. Abernathy to below decks."

"Yes sir," is all I hear before being forcibly ejected from the room and escorted down to the entrance level. Now, I wait.

)()(

Explosions, cannon fire, everything in the Stealth hovercraft's arsenal is shoved into obliterating everything that the Capitol holds dear. We are successful at destroying the majority of the enemy craft, but a few escape with Tribunes on board. Pity, they will act as pawns in a game that is far bigger than the know and far smaller than they expect. We recover most of the Tribunes that are friendly to us, a few enemies for propaganda purposes, and Katniss.

I recommend that we hold Katniss under sedation until we reach District 13. I am voted down. Most think her injuries are enough to prevent her from waking up. I and other fifth columnists from the Capitol begin our attempts to organize what's left of the resistance. While District 13 has the power and capability to do this, they do not have the contacts nor the communication satellites of Maximillian, so we are forced to relay between the generals at District 13 and the rebel commanders on the ground. It is difficult and tenuous, but it works.

Hours pass...

)()(

I'm attempting to comfort Finnick, one of the tribunes that we picked up. His girlfriend is currently under the Capitol's power. It's rather surprising that he hasn't killed himself yet. He just proposed that we attack the Capitol and free her before she is killed.

I tell him, "Don't be stupid, That's the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as _you're _alive, they'll keep _her_ alive for bait.

Upon uttering this, Katniss, finally appears to have woken up, bursts through the door and is attempting to go on a murderous rampage, armed with nothing but a syringe, which she brandishes at us. She has not recovered in the slightest and must have woken up minutes ago. Expecting her to be in a homicidal rage, I react quickly to her entry.

"Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?" I ask in reference to her unstable and questionable condition. She begins to charge, I catch her, jarring my fingers and wrists. "So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why nobody lets you make the plans." She does not react. I order, "Drop it." Still, no reaction. I increase pressure on her wrist until she complies.

The ex-head of the Hunger Games, Plutarch Heavensbee, is also discussing recent events with us. He tries being nice by asking Katniss in a kind tone of voice "Eat,"

With Katniss occupied by eating, I begin to summarize the games, District 13, and the Capitol. Basically, there was a giant conspiracy that put the different Tribunes into a lot of danger and was unnecessary because the person in charge of the games was a rebel and everybody hates the Capitol and we're banding everyone together to fight against the injustices of the Capitol. As the ancient philosopher Terry Pratchett put it, "Remember-The-Atrocity-Committed-Against-Us-Last-Time-That-Will-Excuse-The-Atrocity-That-We're-About-To-Commit-Today! And So On! Hurrah!" However, I say this in approved pro-rebel fashion, so it's ok.

Katniss seems pissed that we hid secrets from her, one of the most videotaped and observed people in the world, whose every movement has been monitored by the Capitol. She thinks we were mean to keep the destruction of everything that she has ever hated and feared from her, because it hurts her feelings. I disagree slightly.

She eventually gets around to asking about Peeta, her lover/boyfriend/worst enemy. "Where is Peeta?" She asks softly.

"He was picked up by the Capitol along with Johanna and Enobaria," I reply. I keep eye contact, secure in the knowledge that Peeta is irreverent. The only objective is President Snow. Katniss disagrees.

Rising from the table with a howl, Katniss attacks me. She attempts to shred my face with her fingernails, perhaps thinking of revenge on someone tenuously related to the current events that hurt her, perhaps releasing anger, or perhaps thinking that being the mockingjay, the figurehead of the rebellion, I will be unable to hurt her. She is wrong. I hit her in the throat.

"Katniss, remember this. You are a visible head of the rebellion, but you do not know how to lead or how to attack. You are a useful morale tool but you will work equally well as such if you died at the "hands of the Capitol". Do not think for an instant you are irreplaceable." With that, I exit. And for the first time since becoming a mentor, I actually don't want a drink.

**Thank you for reading,**

** I hope you enjoyed my first fanfiction. I'll admit that I messed up in a few places, but this certainly was a learning experience. Thank you Audrey and Beth for reading, thank you reviewers for reviewing, and thank you everybody else for choosing to dignify this heap of words with your time. **

**moonlight goose- thank you once again for reviewing, I hope you like how this turned out. **

**Sincerely,**

** Draco Ranger**

**P.S. Please review, it helps me know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong.**

**...and this is the end.**


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